William stands before the desk, breathing the thick scent of dust and polish, not knowing what to do with his hands.
‘It pains me to see you here under these circumstances, Lavery.’ The daffodils glow on the window ledge behind Mr Atkinson’s head, also burnished by the sun’s glare.
‘You’re a fine chorister. Mr Lewis says perhaps the best he’s ever had. But we cannot allow a boy who misbehaves in such a way the honour of the most prestigious of solos. You understand that, don’t you?’
‘No!’ His face burns as he steps closer to the desk. ‘I’ll do anything, sir.’ His voice sounds ridiculous, high-pitched. ‘Please, sir!’
‘You should have thought about the consequences before you joined in with Mussey’s perverted pranks.’
William’s head buzzes. He’ll be gone in June, and for the rest of his life, all he’ll remember is that he never got to sing the ‘Miserere’. Flu first time, and now Martin, with his stupid games. A wall of tears is building behind his eyes, and he wonders, what if he gave in to them? What if, for the first time in four years, he let his body have its say? What if he dropped to the threadbare rug, sobbing at Mr Atkinson’s feet?
Mr Atkinson stands up suddenly and pulls open the desk drawer. ‘The best you can do now, Lavery, is take your punishment like a man.’
It’s only then that William realises how very much he doesn’t want to be beaten. The sun has inched to the left and no longer illuminates the flowers, but instead the piece of birch that Mr Atkinson has slid smoothly from the drawer. So light and thin, it surely can’t hurt that much? Tucked into his underpants are two handkerchiefs, one for each buttock, which Martin pinched from the laundry cupboard.
‘Make sure you visibly flinch after the first one,’ he said, putting the handkerchiefs under William’s pillow after lunch, ‘or he’ll hit you harder the second time.’
‘You said you never flinch.’
‘I don’t, but I go in there so often, I’ve got to keep my self-respect somehow. It’s a one-off for you.’
Now he’s actually standing there, William wishes he’d asked Martin, who is waiting his turn outside the study, to tell him exactly what was going to happen.
Mr Atkinson stands next to William, and his heart takes off like a trapped bird. What now? Does he bend down? Does he wait to be told to bend down? How far does he bend? All the way? Halfway? Why the hell didn’t he ask Martin?
‘Bend over.’
‘Please let me sing, sir!’ William can’t help himself.
‘Down!’
He hasn’t anticipated how intolerable this moment would be: face to the floor, backside offered up. He probably didn’t need to bend this far; he’s touching his toes. The silence is absurd and humiliating.
When it comes, the crack of pain is far worse than he imagined. His body jolts upwards. He bites his mouth and tastes blood. Upside down, he can see Mr Atkinson’s pressed black trousers, and when the crease shifts quickly to the left, William braces. The cane hits exactly the same spot, as does the next and the next, leaving his flesh twitching.
Mr Atkinson walks back to his side of the desk, puts the cane in the drawer and sits. William stands ramrod-straight, fists clenched. Their eyes meet and Mr Atkinson’s gaze drops down to the rug so quickly that, for the briefest of seconds, William is sure it’s shame he sees on his headmaster’s face.
Martin straightens from his slouch against the wall, but William doesn’t acknowledge him. Rushing to the toilets, he hears Mr Atkinson.
‘You again.’
Standing against the cubicle wall, taking care that his roaring flesh doesn’t touch anything, William swipes at his tears and wishes he were bigger than this, that he could laugh it off, parade his wounds like Martin, as if they’re trophies. But it hurts too much and he is too angry. It’s the first time in his life he’s been hit. The lack of emotion affronted him the most. If he had to be assaulted, a bit of passion, an overflowing of anger would have at least made more sense of it. And as if that wasn’t punishment enough, he’s lost the solo and didn’t even see it coming. He hates Mr Atkinson.
Sooner than he expected, William hears heavy footsteps that stop outside the cubicle.
‘Over and done with now.’ Martin’s soft voice echoes a little in the empty toilets.
William doesn’t want to need Martin at this moment, but at the sound of his voice, he does. It’s not a good idea for William to let him into the cubicle, lean on his chest and sob. But that’s what happens.
‘How many?’ Martin says, when William can speak.
‘Four. You?’
‘Six. Listen, get the handkerchiefs out of your trousers. I’ll put them back before we forget.’
William reaches down the back of his trousers and pulls, but he grabs the waistband of his underpants by mistake. He cries out at the bite of pain.
‘I wish I wasn’t so pathetic!’
‘You’re not. You’re the best boy in this whole place, and in two weeks’ time, it won’t hurt any more, and you’re going to sing the solo of your life.’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘You’re kidding!’
Crying again, William shakes his head and suddenly, it’s Martin he hates. His stupid, selfish bed hop has lost William everything.
‘This is your fault. It’s all your fault!’
He still can’t get at the handkerchiefs, so he turns away from Martin to face the cubicle door and yanks his flies down. ‘Bloody hell, Martin!’ he says, again unsuccessfully trying to grab the fabric down his underpants. ‘You never said it would hurt this much!’
‘I’m sorry. I’d forgotten what a shock it is the first time.’ From behind, Martin gently pulls William’s waistband back. ‘Let me do it.’ He reaches inside William’s trousers. ‘Hold your breath a moment. It won’t hurt forever, I promise.’
In the brief second before the door flies open, William knows there’s someone outside, but there is no time to stop crying. Daylight floods the cubicle, and Charles and Anthony stand gaping at William’s twisted face, his open flies, Martin’s hand down his trousers.